


Favor

by missmollyetc



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Chicago Blackhawks, Hockey Players-Canada, Hockey Players-Men, M/M, National Hockey League
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:50:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Brent wakes up, it's to fingertips tracing back and forth across his knuckles, soft as anything, calluses just a slight edge against his skin.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Favor

**Author's Note:**

> Written for shoemaster

When Brent wakes up, it's to fingertips tracing back and forth across his knuckles, soft as anything, calluses just a slight edge against his skin. A sluggishly throbbing pain is spreading across the back of his head, tendrils rising up along the bones of his face. He's lying on a bed, maybe, but he can't quite...feel all of himself. He swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut. Orange sparks shoot behind his eyelids.

"S'me...f'ckin' hate my head," he mutters, and the fingertips pause, rising off his skin.

And Vancouver. He hates Vancouver, too. Brent turns his head, and the orange sparks swirl like a snowglobe. He drags his eyes open just to avoid hurling, and--oh thank God, it's fucking dark in the room; maybe a strip of light from behind a window curtain.

"Brent?" Duncs whispers.

Brent flinches. His eyes sink almost completely closed, but the orange sparks creep back in, and he forces them open again. He swallows, and sour spit drips off his tongue.

"Duncs," he says, and turns his hand over.

Duncs' hand slides over his own, palm to palm with his fingers closing over Brent's wrist. He grips tighter as he inches his chair closer to the bed, and Brent winces.

"You're supposed to be asleep," Duncs says.

"Mouth tastes...like ass," Brent says.

Duncs grins. He's forgotten to put his teeth in again. "Next time don't take a hit like that, and you'll get to brush your teeth."

Brent snorts, and the pain flares up through his head, tightening around the back of his neck like a strap. He groans, and Duncs' thumb digs in over a bone in Brent's wrist. A second later, his other hand takes hold of Brent's forearm and squeezes.

"Stop it," Duncs' says, blinking rapidly. "Stop--"

"Breathing?" he breaks in, trying to work up the nerve to raise his eyebrows.

"God, you suck," Duncs says.

His hands push and pull at Brent's arm, twisting the skin between them. Brent lets gravity push his head a little more into the pillow, and, from the corner of his eye, sees his nightstand piled high with a stack of old ESPNs and the little glass bottle of Duncs' teeth.

"You got your teeth down from the fireplace?" he asks.

Duncs squeezes both hands, hard, and Brent can feel his calluses imprinting onto his skin like fingerprints. "I..." he trails off.

Brent looks over, carefully moving slowly enough to stop the room from revolving on him, and eyes the messy curls pouring off the back of Duncs' head. Duncs presses his face against Brent's stomach, and turns to look up at him.

"I have to go to Vancouver," he says, "tonight. I wanted...I mean, I wanted you..."

Brent licks his lips, dragging his thick tongue behind his teeth. "Y'taking me with you?" he asks.

"In my fucking carry on, if I could," Duncs says, hands opening and closing on Brent.

His head is warm on Brent's stomach, heavy as he breathes. Brent can feel himself sinking into the bed underneath its weight. Fuck, they dosed him up good this time. Must be kind of serious.

"H'vn't done laundry yet," he says, letting his eyes close again. Hello, orange sparks. "C'n have m'shirt."

The air is cool, and Brent feels warm. Duncs' hands tighten again, and Brent drops off to sleep.


End file.
